Midsomer Demons
by Lancer47
Summary: Dawn is studying at Oxford. Even though there's no hellmouth in England, trouble finds her anyway. Although the crime looks like human-caused murder, with ties going back more than a century, if Dawn and Buffy Summers are in the neighborhood is it not likely that the supernatural will show up? The crossover includes BtVS, Midsomer Murders, and Inspector Lewis.
1. Chapter 1

**Misdsomer Demons**

†

Chapter One

Dawn's Very Bad Morning

†

**KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK! **

Guh? Who would be so presumptuous as to wake me up a the crack of, um, ten in the morning? Oh shit, shit, crap, sack of cat turds – I'm late!

I jumped out of bed and didn't notice that my foot was tangled in the sheets and fell flat on the floor:

**KA-WHUMP! **

Geez, klutz much? I managed to stand up, untangled my foot, threw on my bathrobe and a pair of comfortable flip-flops and stumbled down the stairs and, without a thought of whoever might be there, threw open the front door.

Whoa! Hello tall and gorgeous! Oh my god, my hair's a rat's nest! I have no makeup, I had grabbed my old threadbare bathrobe instead of the new one, my flip-flops are coming apart and I am _not_ prepared for the world.

"Good morning miss, I am Detective Sargent Hathaway of the Thames Valley Police Department, Oxford CID. Are you Dawn Summers? Uh, Doctor Dawn Summers, perhaps?" He didn't appear convinced that I could be a doctor of anything. Well, I wasn't entirely sure either at that moment.

"Yeah, umm, well, yeah. Is something wrong?" I mumbled incoherently.

He looked at me, I mean really looked. I could feel his eyes boring into my skull. This was going to be a difficult man. Oh no, who died?

"Who died?" I asked, clutching my ratty bathrobe closer. The damp cool wind was trying to freeze my chest.

"Do you know a Donna Parkinson?"

"You mean Kitty? Kitty Parkinson? My research collaborator?"

"Yes, Donna 'Kitty' Parkinson, Classics Studies at St. Hilda's College."

"What happened to her?"

"I'm afraid I have some bad news, her body was found this morning."

"Oh no. Poor Kitty!"

The sergeant looked askance at my unthinking phrase. "What happened? Did she slip and fall during her parkour exercises? Was she in an accident?"

"Ah, neither. She was murdered."

"WHAT!?"

"Someone really didn't like her."

"Oh my god oh my god oh my god!" I turned from the door and stumbled to the kitchen, assuming Sargent Hathaway would follow me. I wasn't thinking as I automatically started pushing buttons on my absurdly expensive coffee machine.

"Do you want some coffee, sergeant? Or maybe an espresso? Oh I know, I bet you'd like a cappuccino. It's the right time of day for cappuccino according to the Italians, and I should know, I spent a couple of years in Rome." I couldn't stop myself from prattling on.

"No, thank you, Doctor Summers, I prefer tea, but nothing for now, thank you."

"You don't need to stand on formality, Dawn is fine."

A minute later I pulled two cups from the machine and asked, "Do you like plenty of foam on your cappuccino?"

"No thank you, Dawn, none for me, I've already had too much tea this morning."

I foamed enough for the two cups and handed one to the sergeant. He seemed puzzled by something. I sat at the counter while he stood, fiddling indecisively with his cappuccino.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

"I can't go into details as it's an ongoing investigation. But I would like you to tell me when you saw her last."

"Ah, well it had to be at the pub last night. We were at Furio's – you know, that new place just off the A420 not far from the Oxford Rotunda – with some friends, and maybe we got a little too rambunctious. Anyway, it was well past midnight when the proprietor cut us off, so we left."

"I see. And did you see where Miss Parkinson went after that?"

"Not really. Why don't you ask her boyfriend, David. He was with her." I felt a little like I was throwing David under a truck, but really, if I didn't tell the detective she left with him, someone else surely would sooner or later and then I would look like I was covering something up.

"Oh I will, as soon as we find him."

"Dave's missing? You know he's actually Sir David Wentworth? Baronet of Gosfield? Where've you looked?"

"At his flat, and his college. He would appear to be unaccounted for."

"Oh, no no no, not Davey too! He must be in trouble – he's is a stand-up guy, mostly. Even with that huge British stick up his ass – sorry – I know I should say 'arse' on this side of the Atlantic."

"The meaning of either form is clear," he said, with a tiny quirk of his lips, "even on this side of the Atlantic."

"Oh right, I can't think straight, sorry, sorry. I can't believe Kitty is gone."

"That's quite understandable. In the meantime, we are unable to locate David Wentworth and his girlfriend was found murdered. How do you think that looks to us?"

"I don't give a damn how it _looks_, he's innocent! Get out there and investigate some more!"

"Oh not to worry Dr. Summers, we are busy looking into all applicable corners. So, what direction did Miss Parkinson and Mr. Wentworth go?"

"That's _Sir _David Wentworth; he's quite particular about it. An oddity in an otherwise reasonably nice person."

"Yes, well, you're an American so perhaps it doesn't make sense to you. Although I'll have to check to be sure, but if memory serves I believe the Gosfield line is extinct, so I am not at all certain how he can make the claim to be a baronet."

"Uh, really? Extinct? I really, really, wanna be there when you tell him that!"

"Erm, right then, we'll sort that out later. Where do you think he might have gone last night?"

"Towards his flat. They usually ended up there most every night for the last couple of months. They were studying the _Kama Sutra_, you see."

"Well, yes I see, perhaps." He paused in thought for a moment, then hesitantly asked, "Do you mean a formal academic study? Or is that a euphemism for, ahhh..."

"Both, actually. David is quite the expert in bed." Dawn looked a little saddened. "Purely second-hand information on my part, in case you were wondering."

"I wasn't, actually."

"Oh, good."

The sergeant continued, "So, as far as we have been able to ascertain, they didn't get to his flat last night. That being the case, where could they have ended up?"

"Perhaps kidnapped? A kidnapping for ransom gone horribly wrong?"

"That sounds a bit, erm, fanciful. Why do you suggest it?"

"Well, David works for the same organization as me and my sister, and we're thought by many to be wealthy, but really we're just fairly well-off."

Hathaway looked around at the modern kitchen and the rooms he could see through the openings and doorways. "So, ah, do you have any roommates?"

"No, none. This house is owned by our company – Council Antiquities – and my sister and I own quite a bit of the company stock. So the house is a nice perk as long as I'm living in Oxford. And I quite like my privacy – so no roommates, although I often have friends staying here. In fact, Kitty stayed here often enough that she moved some of her things into a guest room. She stayed overnight maybe once or twice a week."

"I see," said the sergeant as he wrote something in his little notebook. "I happen to know that this neighborhood – all of Oxford actually, but particularly any housing within walking distance of any of the colleges – is unreasonably expensive. And a house like this: a very large stone house complete with a proper slate roof, well-equipped, stately, venerable, imposing and old but clearly well maintained over the centuries and remodeled as required to stay up-to-date with all the mod cons, but still historically accurate at least on the exterior, next to the river with it's own private dock… Surely you see why I think 'well-off' may be an attempt at charming understatement?"

"Hmph, I guess I won't show you what's in the garage. But it's not like we're aristocrats or anything."

"You needn't be defensive, Doctor Summers, I'm just trying to fill in the blanks, talk to the friends and acquaintances of the deceased. It's how we figure out what happened. And there's no law against being beautiful, intelligent and wealthy."

"Don't forget educated."

"I surely won't."

"So when you asked me about last night, you already knew. You were checking on me, right?"

"Of course, that's what we do."

"Mmm, yeah, I can see that. Say, you should talk to Professor Bathurst. Kitty said something to me the other day about discovering something about his ethnosemantic theory that the Professor wouldn't like."

"Do you know what it was?"

"Not a clue. Kitty said it would be a big unwelcome shock to the prof."

"Ethnosemantics sounds a little rarefied to me."

"Oh it is. Professor Bathurst's main contribution to linguistic theory involved cultural linguistics tied together with his work in ethnosemantics and the ethnography of speaking, especially concerning the family of Proto-Indo-European languages."

"Yeah, that does sound awfully specialized. Is that what you're studying?"

"Not exactly, I studied Classical Languages, Modern and Classical Linguistics, and a bunch of other stuff about, mostly dead languages. These days I'm working at original research in ancient languages with respect to rebuilding unwritten languages. So you see I'm already one of the relative handful of people in the world who understands Professor Bathurst's work. And that's why I am burning with curiosity about Kitty's supposed discovery."

"I thought I was educated, but I'm suddenly feeling a bit dim," said Sargent Hathaway.

"What's your field?"

"I studied theology and biblical philology at Cambridge, but I think you're out of my league."

"So you must know the words to '_I __am the Very Model__of __a__M__odern __B__iblical __Philologist__', _sung to Gilbert and Sullivan?" *

"Of course! I can belt it out with the best of 'em, and accompany it on my guitar."

"We need to go down the pub, drink a few pints, and sing that one publicly."

"That _would_ be something, but I don't know if my superiors would appreciate the humor of it."

"Then let's make sure none of them are there when we sing it."

His smile was a little anemic. I guess he _really_ didn't want his boss to hear him singing.

†


	2. Chapter 2

**Midsomer Demons**

†

**Chapter Two**

Are there any Walnut trees in England?

†

Robert Walpole strode down the path through his woods, firmly poking at the ground with his walking stick in a manner suited to the current Earl of Orford. He walked his grounds for an hour every morning while digesting his English breakfast, having considerable pride in his Midsomer estate. As he walked, he eyed his lofty trees, occasionally making a mental note if he felt one was getting near the end of its life and could be cut down and sawed into planks so it could be given a second life – many second lives really – as fine furniture – or perhaps intricate paneling for the main hall, or even fine musical instruments. He came around a stand of gorgeous English Oak trees, then down a short steep section of the path to a partial clearing with an ancient Black Walnut – he stopped short. Why was the sun shining in his face? He looked incredulously at the empty space ahead of him. His great Walnut tree? Where was it?

He stepped closer and was bewildered by the hole in the ground where his finest tree used to be. He looked beyond and saw truck and tractor tracks along the path. He shook his head angrily, grabbed his felt hat, threw it to the ground and stomped on it.

He finally gathered his wits and calmed down enough to call the police on his mobile.

* * *

"Jones!" DCI Barnaby said, "anything for us on the overnights?"

"No sir, but the Earl of Oxford, Robert Walpole..."

Barnaby interrupted, "Walpole is the Earl of Orford, not Oxford. Don't mix them up, the respective Earls will be indignant and think you a fool."

"Orford? Not Oxford? Really? I thought that was typo. Okay, so anyway, the Earl of _Or_ford called in this morning. It seems someone stole a tree from his forest." Jones frowned at the paper. "Sounds a bit barmy to me, sir."

"He may sound dotty, but in this case, no. Theft of trees can be a real problem."

"So you really think CID should investigate a missing tree?"

"Yes, I know, it's crackers, but the Earl is influential in the County, and has the ear of both the Superintendent and the Chief Constable, and enough money to cause a great deal of trouble if we should displease him, so it won't do to antagonize him unnecessarily. So go ahead and take Stevens and go talk to him."

"What? Seriously? For a tree?"

"Yes, depending on the type of tree and how big it was, it could well be felony."

"Really?"

"Oh yes."

* * *

PC Stevens straightened her uniform as she got out of the car and looked around the estate. She said, "What are we doing here again? Somebody nicked a tree? It's a bit early for Christmas and there seem to be rather a lot of them left – I wouldn't have thought one less would matter that much."

"Yeah, the guv'ner has his knickers in a twist about this toff. Evidently we have to make nice."

"Huh. That doesn't really sound like Barnaby."

"Maybe he just wanted us out of the office for a bit."

They walked up the impressive stone pavement to the even more impressive carved wood front door of the country house of the Earl of Orford.

"Doesn't look like the Earl is short of readies," said Jones, looking around at the perfectly coiffed landscape.

The door opened just before Jones could pull the old-fashioned bell rope. "There you are! It's about time! Some _bastard_ has stolen my very best walnut tree! You can follow the tracks and nab the bounders!"

"Ah, Lord Walpole?"

"Yes, yes, follow me to the scene of the crime!" The Earl hurried off, confident that Jones and Stevens would follow. They glanced at each other and took off after him across the side yard and into the woods, following a nicely maintained path that wound prettily through the forest.

After about ten minutes, Jones asked, "Ah, sir, how much further is it?"

"Not far, young man, not far at all. No more than another ten minutes. Hurry along now, there's not a moment to be lost!"

They finally puffed up to a small clearing with a freshly dug hole in the ground. Jones and Stevens stood next to the Earl and stared down into the hole. It looked about five or six meters across, and maybe four or five down.

"Sir," asked Jones, "why did the vandals go to the trouble of digging out this rather large hole?"

"Vandals? Oh no, not vandals, they were thieves, blackguards, the worst of the worst. You see, the value of a walnut tree is increased many times by digging down to cut it below the major root ball, that way you can get the most valuable planks."

"Planks? You think your tree was stolen to make furniture?"

"Of course. This tree should yield about thirty thousand pounds worth of raw lumber."

"Ah, by 'pounds'," Jones said, a little puzzled that he wasn't using kilos, "you mean weight?"

"Of course not, you bloody imbecile – I mean it's value. This was a very fine example of the _juglans nigra_, or the eastern black walnut. Originally from North America, walnuts were introduced into England back in the late 1700s. This one was more than a hundred and fifty years old, which is getting on for a walnut tree. It was near the end of it's life, past the end really, and was ready to be harvested. This tree, it was beautiful, really, truly, beautiful." Jones was startled to note that the Earl had tears in his eyes.

"This tree, young man, was worth a great deal of money. But more than the money, the fact is this tree will make beautiful works, fine furniture in the best tradition of English woodworking: tables, chairs, desks, carved panels, prie-dieu, sideboards – all glowing with an inner fire after accomplished artisans have finished working the wood into beautiful forms. The loss of this tree, is, is, is… well, I'm speechless with fury!"

"I see." _Not _too_ speechless_, Jones thought uncharitably, but wisely kept his mouth shut.

"No young man, I don't think you do. You see, walnut usually grows either tall and slim if grown under forest competition, or short and wide with a broad crown when grown in an open area. This one was started in a clearing by the old Earl of Orford, Lord Weston, and after having grown to a significant girth in the trunk, the next Earl, my father Lord Walpole, planted trees around it, quite close, so as to foster vertical growth. So you see, this tree has been tended by three generations of Earls, and I have reason to be bereft that some dodgy _arsehole_ has lifted it from under my nose! When I saw that hole it was a right kick in the gut, detective, let me tell you if it wasn't!"

"I see," said Jones, writing a note in his notebook. "Can I have the particulars of the tree, sir?"

"Particulars?"

"Description."

"Oh I see, yes, well it was about one hundred a twenty feet tall, and around eight feet in diameter, but increasing to at least ten feet at the base, probably more at the root ball. And of course, it was a Black Walnut, you know what they look like, right?"

"So how many people could actually handle a tree this size? Dig this hole and cut it down in the middle of the night and haul it off without you noticing?"

"Hmmm, it was here yesterday morning, I suppose they could have started working on it around noon. If they had maybe half a dozen men they could have dug it out and cut it down by nightfall. The tracks tell me they had a logging truck, a backhoe, and a skidder to load it. So they had to be professional loggers."

"And you heard nothing? I would have thought the sound of chain saws and skidders would carry through the woods."

The Earl sighed unhappily. "I probably did hear it, I just didn't realize it was coming from here. You see, I had loggers at work on another part of the grounds, about quarter a mile from here off in about the same direction as this tree is from my house. So the sounds, well, the sounds would have merged, wouldn't they?"

"Ah, yes I see. But how could they make off with a log that's ah, forty meters long?"

"No doubt they crosscut the trunk in two, or possibly three pieces depending on how big the root was. More to the point, there's only about three places in a reasonable distance that would accept a tree like that to process. There's other sawmills, of course, but they would be mostly filled up with their own trees, or wouldn't have equipment big enough to handle a trunk this size, or they would be a very long drive from here. So let's get back to the house, I'll give you a list of dodgy mills to look up, and you can put them under surveillance until you pinch the bastards!"

"I'll see what we can do, sir."

* * *

On the drive back to the station, Jones and Stevens had a good laugh.

Stevens said, "Yeah, I can just see the Chief Superintendent authorizing the dosh for a massive surveillance operation to find a stolen tree!"

"Yeah, I suppose we'll have to visit a couple of sawmills, but even if we found it, how would we identify it?"

Stevens, effecting a stern voice, said, " _'Sir, __are these__ your __logs__? Or does it belong to the Earl of Orford!'_ Yeah, that'll go over well – they'd be shaking in their boots, I'm sure."

* * *

_In the year of our Lord, 16 February, 1896, Orford House, Midsomershire_

_My Dearest Sweet Clara, _

_And when I have reasoned it all out, and set metes and bounds for your love that it may not pass, lo, a letter from Clara, and in one sweet, ardent, pure, Edenic page, her love overrides my boudaries as the sea sweeps over rocks and sands alike, crushes my barriers into dust out of which they were builded, o'er whelms me with its beauty, bewilders me with its sweetness, charms me with its purity, and loses me in its great shoreless immensity._

_I am bereft until our eyes, our lips, our hands, meet again,_

_Yours forever, _

_**Charles**_

* * *

The next morning, in my black skintight jogging outfit, I was indulging in some _tai chi_ exercises out on the dock. After a few minutes I saw Cully Barnaby at the top of the dock wave at me.

"Morning Dawny! You ready for a run yet?"

"Hey, Cully, just a sec, let me finish my set."

I sped up the last few forms, then joined Cully at the path.

About a quarter of a mile down the path, I asked Cully (puffing a little), "You hear about Kitty?"

"Yes, how awful. Have they found _Sir_ David yet?"

"Not that I know. Old '_call me__ sir!_' is a bit of a berk, isn't he?" I answered.

"Well, aren't you all British sounding these days. And you know, we probably shouldn't speak ill of the dead."

"I _am_ a linguist, I pick up foreign languages easily. I didn't know you were superstitious."

"Foreign language? You mean English?"

"Yeah, foreign. At least the way you guys speak it on this island."

"Hah! I think you're all topsy-turvey, after all, we invented English so it's you colonists who speak foreign. And no, I'm not superstitious, I just think it's tacky to insult dead people."

"To be sure, we don't know that he's dead."

"So that makes it all right to insult him?"

"Umm, perhaps not. And anyway, you didn't invent English, you inherited it from the Germans and then started speaking it badly when the Vikings got here and intermarried and didn't bother to master the more complicated bits of Olde English."

" 'got here and intermarried'? Really? Is that supposed to be a euphemism for rape and pillage? And I really hate the sound of 'got'."

"It could have been a violent intermarriage in many cases, and while the Danes ran roughshod through England, overthrowing kingdoms and such until old Alfred stopped them, but behind the battles and such a lot of the Northmen settled down rather peaceably with willing wives. And you better get used to 'got' – I've heard it on the _telly_."

"Humph. I thought the Vikings were pretty damn violent when they invaded. Of course, modern humans are pretty violent, too. My dad is the DCI over in Midsomer, in the Causton CID. For a quiet idyllic English rural county, we have an utterly astonishing number of murders. And it must have been an American who said 'got'."**

"What does DCI stand for?"

"Detective Chief Inspector."

"So he's kind of a big deal."

"Yeah, I guess. I mean, to me he's my dad, but he reports to only one guy, so I guess he's high up in the coppers."

"Cor blimey that's corking!" I said.

Cully laughed at my exaggerated imitation of British vernacular English as we jogged side by side down the path.

* * *

Barnaby sipped his morning tea in the back garden with a couple of scones. He could hear his wife puttering around in the kitchen, preparing breakfast. He couldn't help but wonder if was to be bacon and eggs, or some creative atrocity so inedible even the dog turned would up his nose.

His phone rang, it was Jones. "Yes Sergeant?"

"We have a murder, sir. I'll be at your house in ten minutes."

Barnaby very nearly blurted 'oh thank god' but managed instead, "I'll be ready." Joyce was just coming out of the house with a plate of what was supposed to be breakfast. Barnaby marveled at how his wife could get such awful results after trying so hard for so many years to improve her cooking.

"I'm so sorry dear, but I have to run, although this smells delicious. Jones is picking me up in a moment."

"Oh, but your breakfast? You have to eat!"

"I'll pick up something on the way to the scene, don't worry dear, I'll be fine."

He kissed her, then hurried around to the front of his house just in time to meet his sergeant; he got in the passenger side and they took off in a hurry.

"So what've we got?"

"Constables were called out to an industrial woodworking facility just outside of Lesser Horsepath, which is down the road from Greater Horsepath, although I'm not sure why 'Greater' would actually apply to such a small village, but there it is. Anyway, there was a murdered man in the middle of the sawing shed. Murder by sawmill, apparently."

"Erm, could it have been an accident?"

"Constables on the scene don't have any doubt."

"Hmmm."

They arrived about thirty minutes later. Barnaby and Jones got out and looked around. There was a large wooden structure, open on the ends, that had stacks of logs at one end and neatly piled stacks of planks at the other. There were various other buildings and sheds, evidently devoted to the care of wood in various stages. They walked into the large building and Barnaby could see an outsized industrial dual-bladed circular saw in the middle, flanked by a log carriage on rails and various other supporting equipment. It was huge, he'd never seen one that large, the thing wasn't quite big enough to cut his car in half, but it wasn't far off – a very small car would probably fit on the carriage. Just beyond the works was a man, or what used to be a man, lying forlornly on the ground, partially covered in woodchips.

"Dr. Bullard, good morning."

"Ah, morning Tom."

"So, what do we have?"

"A dead man, or rather, two halves of a dead man."

Barnaby raised his eyebrows involuntarily as he took in the remains. "Yes, well, are we certain this was murder and not an accident? By the looks of it, this machine could certainly make short work of someone who tripped and fell at the wrong time. It's not exactly a computerized marvel with an excess of safety devices."

Bullard agreed, "Yep, back in the day they didn't see much need for blade guards or automated emergency stop systems."

Jones had to turn away from the sight of the sawed man and held his hand up to his mouth. He was just able to keep from vomiting his breakfast all over the scene.

"But," Dr. Bullard continued, "according to the workers here, the machine was shut down when they got in this morning, which would tend to preclude suicide. Accident? Possible I guess, but there wasn't anyone supposed to be working during the night."

"Can you tell if he was dead before he was, ahhh, ripped in half lengthwise, as it were."

"Not until I get the pieces of him on my table."

Jones wandered outside the shed, looking at logs. He stopped and stared at three in particular.

"Excuse me," he asked one of the despondent workers sitting outside, sipping tea. "These three logs, these wouldn't by any chance be from a black walnut tree, would they?"

"Why yessir, it tis. A good eye you 'ave sir. There aren't a lot of walnut trees in England, ye see, sir."

"Would you happen to know where they came from?"

"No, but the guv'ner would."

"And where would I find him?"

He pointed down the middle of the sawmill shed. "There sir, or rather wot's left of 'im. Pur' bastid."

"Surely there's someone else who took care of paperwork?"

The man stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Ye kin try old Molly. She's over at the office building, down that away," pointing at another building with his cup.

"Okay, thanks, I will." He turned back towards Barnaby, but didn't move any closer; he just stood and waited.

A few minutes later Barnaby did come towards him. "You have anything?"

"Yeah, see these three logs? I think it's the Earl's missing walnut tree."

"Really? Surely Walpole wouldn't have committed murder over his logs, would he?"

"I dunno, he actually had tears in his eyes when he was describing the particulars of his stolen tree to me and Stevens."

"Seriously?"

"I could hardly credit my eyes, but yes, seriously. Apparently this tree had been in the family for three generations. He said it was worth thirty thousand pounds, minimum."

"Well, we've certainly seen murders committed for far less than that."

"Yeah, but I don't think the Earl would've done this, he seemed convinced we'd pull out all the stops to recover his tree."

"We've also had to arrest members of the aristocracy for murder, Jones. Just because he's an Earl doesn't make him any less susceptible to adopting criminal solutions."

"Still, I don't think he'd be the type. Of course, I've been wrong before." He stared at the tree thoughtfully. "On the other hand, I don't think he would have had the time to find the logs since Stevens and I talked to him last."

"Well, that's a good reason to keep an open mind, at the very least."

* * *

_In the year of our Lord, 12 March, 1896, Causton House_

_Oh my dearest Charlie!_

_It is not within me to to tell you how I have been affected by this dearest of all letters, it was so unexpected, so new a thing to see your inmost thoughts upon paper that I was quite o'rpowered, & now I sit down to answer in the loneliness and depth of love that unites us!_

_I scarcely know how to proceed, but proceed I will, for I am agitated with excitement, my eyes half shut as I remember our secret delights. Oh to be with you again, my love, to feel your your heartbeat with your chest against mine, as our hearts beat in synchronicity! I am ready, I am yours forever just as you are mine!_

_4 more weeks, a lifetime, or a bagatelle?, just a little more time, and my lips will be on yours, pressed together, your arms around me, holding me tight. Upon close of this letter, I am going to bed, to think of you, to dream of you!_

_Love Forevermore, your soulmate,_

_** Clara**_

* * *

I was in my study, trying to work on my research, when I heard a car drive up. I leaned back in my chair with a sigh, saved my work, and waited for the doorbell seeing as my concentration was completely ruined.

The theme from the Imperial March reverberated throughout my house as I answered the door – I was gonna kill Andrew one of these days. "Oh, DS Hathaway," I gushed before noticing he brought a colleague.

"Hello Dr. Summers, this is Detective Inspector Lewis, we'd like to follow up on a few items, if we may?"

I held the door open for them; I still never issued verbal invitations even though it had been years since I had seen a vampire – the lack of same being one of my favorite things about Oxford. Although some of the more introverted scholars secluded in the further recesses of some of the ancient structures in the city looked suspiciously pale to my eyes.

"Would you like some tea or coffee?"

"No thank you Dr. Summers," said Inspector Lewis, "I wonder if you could give us a little more detail on the conversations you had at the pub last night, before Miss Parkinson left?"

"Oh sure, we were arguing about how accurate our reconstruction of the early Indo-European languages could be. I tend to be a little vehement when it comes to defending my work – I think we will eventually be very accurate indeed, if not perfect about the regional pronunciations, but Kitty thinks – I mean _thought_ – that we could never even get close." My eyes watered.

Hathaway handed me a handkerchief.

"Sorry, I just realized I'll never be able to argue with Kitty again. It hit me hard."

Lewis said, "And the others in your party? What were they discussing?"

"I don't know, something about boys and their balls."

Both men looked at me quizzically. I added, "_S__ports_, balls and sports. I really wasn't paying attention to their conversation."

The doorbell rang again and the damn Stars Wars theme echoed throughout the house. Hathaway and Lewis looked bemused. I said over my shoulder as I went to the door, "One of my idiot friends thinks it's funny to reprogram my ring tones – and I didn't even realize my doorbell could _be_ re-programmed until it was too late."

I opened the door and I swear it looked like a more rural version of Lewis and Hathaway.

"DCI Barnaby and DS Jones of Causton CID." The older one said as he held out his credentials. "Is Miss Kitty Parkinson in? We were told at the college that she might be here."

Hathaway and Lewis come up behind me. Barnaby said, "Inspector Lewis! What are you doing here?" as Jones said, "Hathaway, how ya doin'?"

Lewis said, "Miss Parkinson was found dead last night."

Barnaby frowned. "Now that's alarming. Was it a violent death?"

"Very," said Sergeant Hathaway.

Sergeant Jones said, "We're here to inform the next of kin of the death of the death of Nathaniel Parkinson, Miss Parkinson's brother."

"And how did he die?" asked Lewis.

"He was sawed in half."

"Ohmygod!" I blurted out, "Alive?!"

"At first," said Jones. Oh god, another fucking joker in the face of death. He'd get along well with Xander and Buffy these days.

"Erm," said Hathaway, "what kind of saw?"

_Seriously? __What __kind__ of saw? __Men!_ I thought.

"It was an industrial sawmill – a large circular saw for logs. The perpetrators shoved him onto the carriage which feeds into the blades, where he was cut in half lengthwise from head to crotch. Our ME believes he was probably unconscious since he didn't make any effort to climb off the feed table. But, conscious or not, he surely died more or less instantly. The perpetrators left the two halves of the victim spilled all over the floor, shut off the machine and the lights, and drove away."

"AHHH! I didn't need to hear any of that!" I practically yelled at them.

Barnaby said, "Oh, I am sorry miss, uh..."

Hathaway said, "This is Dr. Dawn Summers. She was Miss Parkinson's research partner. Former research partner."

I calmed down and asked, "So is the Causton CID and the Midsomershire police related somehow?"

"They're both part of the Thames Valley Police, just different stations."

"Oh, so you guys are all colleagues, right?"

"Yes."

"And, Mr. Barnaby, are you related to Cully Barnaby?"

"Yes, she's my daughter."

"Ah, she's often my running partner during the run of her play here. She described you quite well, I think.

"Oh, good."

* * *

_In the year of our Lord 20 March 1896, Oxford House_

_Oh my dearest Clara,_

_Your letter touched me in ways that I can hardly countenance. Were there ever two souls more harmoniously matched? A week, a week and a half perhaps, and I shall pull you to me, face to face, eye to eye, finally to touch your lips with mine. The wait is interminable, the cruel calendar keeping us apart in our time of desire. But, the days will pass, never fear, and we will be together again, of this you have my absolute certainty._

_And, it is my great relief to tell you that my father has written at last – your father and mine have reached agreement and we will be wed, the families agree. I never doubted for an instant, but, if father had disallowed this marriage, I surely would have disobeyed him!_

_We will be together forever, with love,_

_**Charles**_

* * *

Author's Notes:

*In _Midsomer Murders_, DCI Tom Barnaby not only gets called out to solve murders on a regular basis while on duty, but even when he's just enjoying a country weekend at a local fair (or faire, or even fayre) with his wife and daughter, he comes across murders which he then has to solve. He's kind of like the Jessica Fletcher of Midsomer (except more official) in that regard.

Midsomer is a mythical English county, but if it was real it pretty much would be part of Oxfordshire and Buckinghamshire. The actual town of Wallingford is the stand-in for the fictional Causton, and that's not far from Oxford (about twelve miles as the crow flies according to Google Earth), so it's a doddle to mash up _Inspector Lewis_ and _Midsomer Murders_ and then add _BtVS_ to get a little spice into the story. Also, on _Inspector Morse_, (_Inspector Lewis_'s progenitor), they always identified themselves as 'Thames Valley Police', which, as far as I can tell from my research, would be absolutely correct. For some reason on _Inspector Lewis_ they changed that to 'Oxfordshire Police', but a search for Oxfordshire Police gets redirected to Thames Valley Police.

So anyway, it seems reasonable that Midsomershire is also in the Thames Valley Police jurisdiction, therefore DCI Lewis and DCI Barnaby would both be in the same police department, just different stations. The real Thames Valley Police have forty-eight police stations, plus the one in Causton that they don't know about.

**If you have any interest at all in linguistics, you owe it to yourself to listen to this:

watch?v=3x2SvqhfevE

***WPC Stevens didn't show up on the series Midsomer Murders until around season 10 or 11, but presumably the character was at the station doing ordinary police work in the background. After all, she had enough seniority to get promoted to Detective Constable after she was on just a few episodes.

**** I didn't write the first letter from 1896, I lifted it from a website of actual letters from the Victorian era.

6


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three**

_Are there any bears in England?_

* * *

"Dr. Hobson," said Lewis, "do you have any conclusions about Miss Parkinson yet?"

Hobson looked up from the open corpse in front her and smiled warmly at Lewis. "Robbie, I was just thinking about you!"

Lewis was a little worried by the blood covering her gloved hands nearly to her elbows while she thought of him.

Laura said, "I'd shake, but..." She glanced at her gory mess in front of her.

"So, have you found anything?"

She frowned and said, "Well, her death was very violent, much more so than we usually see here in Oxford."

"In what respect?"

"She has what look like very large bite marks, as well as apparent claw marks, on her face, neck, front torso, back, and legs. Then she was stabbed repeatedly, although she was already dead by then."

"Claw marks? Bite marks? What kind of animal?"

"Ermmm, I don't feel comfortable making that determination. I think we need to get a biologist in for a consult."

"Huh, so it was an animal attack?"

"What kind of animal uses a serrated hunting knife?"

"What? So what happened here?"

"Killed by a bear, stabbed postmortem by a very angry person, I'm guessing. Unless it was a knife-wielding bear – which seems doubtful. Don't quote me, I'll know more later."

Lewis shook has head in wonder. "Yeah, I wouldn't care to take this into court without a great deal of supporting evidence."

"Like reports of a great bear rambling through the middle of Oxford."

"Yeah, that would be helpful. You don't suppose there are any..."

"Now Robbie, there are no bears in England – not outside a zoo at least. And zoos go to a great deal of trouble to ensure their bears don't go walk-about."

"Maybe a French bear hitched a ride through the Chunnel."

"I wouldn't care to bet on that."

"Yeah, me neither."

* * *

_In the year of our Lord, 8 April, 1896, Midsomer Estate_

_Dearest Elizabeth,_

_Charlie's home! Hooray! Mummy and Daddy are over the moon in joy, although you'd have to know them well to notice any outward difference. The whole staff are chuffed to the nines to be setting up for parties, all running about getting this-and-that so all will be perfect._

_Clara can hardly contain herself, the wedding day is set for next summer. I do hope my brother and Clara are careful if they try to push things ahead of marriage (I trust you know what I mean, I dare not write the words)._

_Still, I worry for Charlie. I saw him arguing with an irregular person of uncertain demeanour yesterday, it seemed quite the set-to that nearly ended in fisticuffs, or so I thought, but the queer fellow finally left, although with a few parting shots over his shoulder. I put it to Charlie, but he put me off. I was quite put out, and if you can believe it he told me to mind my own business! Hummph, well, I'm sure I don't know what he's getting up to, but it's on him I should think._

_After two years of Brasenose College matriculation, I fear our Charlie is getting rather stodgy. He's been insisting to anyone not family that he be referred to as 'Viscount' more often than is quite done. It's his right, of course, as the heir presumptive, still, it's all rather pushy, don't you think? That, and he's got to have just the right wines, and he's become so very particular about cigars now. When did my brother take up cigar smoking? I think I shall replace his oh-so-expensive fancy cigars with cheap ones (I know just the ones, the gardener smokes them, I'll switch the bands and he'll never know), and after he lights one up and goes chuntering on about how superior his wonderful cigars are to cheap ones, how first-rate ash compares, how exceptional the bloody smoke, I'll tell him what he really just smoked, and then there'll be an argy-bargy! Oh, maybe not, it might be too hurtful a prank – but fun to think about!_

_Still, I am happy to have my brother home, underneath his tedious Oxford veneer, he's still little Charlie. Although he doesn't revert to being my beloved older brother until after the folks have gone to bed, the staff have gone off duty, we've had more than a bit to drink, and it's just us talking late into the night in the game room over the snooker table. We don't let daddy know how well I play._

_With love,_

_**Your Cousin Phillipa**_

* * *

"You want to ride with me to Causton this weekend?" I asked Cully.

"Ride in a Mercedes? Sure."

"You haven't seen my new one yet. When you go around corners, the seat reconforms and pushes against you on the opposite side of the turn, to hold you in from the G-forces. It's, um, startling the first time you feel it."

"Why are you going to Causton?"

"I'm meeting my sister there, then we'll head over to Dorchester for the weekend where we know some people."

"When do we leave?"

"My last class on Friday is out at three, but then I have to talk to my professor about my research. With Kitty being dead it kind of throws a wrench into the schedule."

"Yeah, it's hard on Kitty, too."

"I know, I know. I still can't believe this happened here in Oxford. I mean, this is such a civilized place, otherwise."

"Yeah, any place is civilized until someone gets murdered."

"Tell me about it. Still, it's been quite a few years since I had to deal with this level of violence."

"So back in America you have murders all over, corpses littering the streets and byways? There's no law against idiots carrying guns everywhere?"

"It's not quite that bad, but Sunnydale had a gang problem, and there was kind of a club at the high school organized to help defeat the gangs. My sister was involved in that."

"Huh, sounds dangerous."

"Yeah, that's why I was glad to get out. So, around six we can get something to eat then head out."

"I'll be ready when you get here."

* * *

The Earl was ecstatic that the police had found his walnut logs. He'd given instructions that the logs be transported to his local sawmill while his solicitor pressured the Crown Prosecutor's Service to bring charges against the bounders who stole his tree, as well as the ones who'd received the stolen property. The dead one surely had heirs that could be sued, he hoped.

He stood next to Tom the bandsaw operator and precisely instructed him how far to rotate the trunk for the first cuts. He wanted several through and through planks from the center of the great trunk, and it was important to start the blade at the correct angle to maximise the grain appearance of the finished product.

"Right there Tom, perhaps a touch more … got it! Now set your machine to twelve quarters and bob's your uncle."

Tom smiled to himself as he set his thickness to 300mm. The guv'ner liked his old-school terms.

The two watched carefully as the log fed through the blade, listening contentedly to the hum of the blade and the buzz of wood getting sundered and the fall of chips in the hopper. But, as the cut neared the root end the blade's tone suddenly changed to a shocking clang and the color of the chips flying out changed to a bright golden color for a few seconds. Tom went to hit the emergency stop, but the clanging noise stopped and he let the saw continue cutting. After all, he thought philosophically, the blade was probably already ruined, so no reason not to complete the cut and see what the problem was. The blade got to the end with a bit of screeching and he hit the levers to the carriage and the two men leaned over the safety rails as the hydraulics lay the two halves apart to see what made the strange noise.

"What in world? Is that gold?" said the Earl.

"Yes, a few gold coins, looks like, but wot the fuck is packed with the coins?!" said Tom.

"Oh dear, I'm afraid 'who was it' would be more correct."

†

DS Jones said, "Another sawmill, another corpse, this is getting to be a habit, sir."

"A rather nasty one at that."

"At least this body's been dead for long enough to be less messy."

"Hush," said Barnaby, "don't let the civilians hear you say things like that."

"Sir."

They walked up to the crime scene and observed the latest victim that somehow got stuck in a tree trunk. Barnaby said, "Lord Walpole? I'm DCI Barnaby."

"Barnaby, are you going to get to the bottom of this? And when can we cut up the rest of my tree? I'm worried about stress fractures from uneven drying."

"Give us enough time to dig out the gold and the body, sir."

"Shouldn't be too long then, right?"

"Perhaps not, we'll see." Barnaby studied the log and the remains and asked, "How could all this end up inside a live tree? Was there any sign on the exterior of the tree?"

The earl answered, "Well, there was probably a large hollow in the trunk, a split, which can occur naturally, or some external force such as lightening, or insect infestation. Sometimes it kills the tree and other times, if the tree is otherwise healthy and there are plenty of nutrients and the weather co-operates, the area will grow over and heal. And of course, there are ways to help the tree along; pack the hollow, tar it to prevent further insect damage, inject nutrients into the soil, and a few other things to insure a long-lived tree. I had seen the remains of the defect, of course, but it must have been before my lifetime that it was filled and mostly grown over."

"So you're blaming your father?"

"More likely his estate manager. He was an unlikable old sod, beastly when pickled, which often enough but not quite too often. And damn good at his job or Father would surely have sacked him. He retired a good forty years ago, then he died about, erm, twenty, twenty-five years ago, if I recall correctly. Still, I'd take a long hard look at 'im."

"Inconvenient that he's dead."

"Not much you can do about it Barnaby, that hollow couldn't possibly have been open enough to stuff a body in it and heal over in my lifetime. You are going be looking at my father's generation if you plan to find the perpetrator of this particular crime."

"Yes," Barnaby sighed deeply, "this'll be a hard slog to decipher, I fear."

He turned to look at the road when he heard a car drive up. It was the morgue van, followed by Dr. Bullard.

The doc parked his car and, noticing Barnaby and a few constables standing around another shed, headed over.

"Afternoon Tom."

"Another sawmill, another corpse, doctor."

"Getting to be habit, isn't it?"

"Not one I wish to encourage."

"I should say not. So at least we don't have any blood this time."

Bullard pulled on his crime scene overalls and knelt on the open tree trunk to inspect the old bones and the few strands of mummified flesh. He suddenly looked up at the band saw blade, which was within an arms length from his head, and said, "This machine isn't going to start up any time soon, is it?"

The bandsaw operator said, "Tom Weston, I'm the owner and operator of this facility. And no, the saw is shut down and the safeties will keep it shut down, and the main power to the machine is off at the box." He pointed to an electrical panel ten feet away.

"Good, good," said the doctor as he took in the large electrical switch in the off position with a red metal locking bar physically holding the switch from being moved.

Everybody watched him as Dr. Bullard examined the remains, there wasn't much else for them to do. He stuck a hand up in the air without looking up and said, "Evidence bag!" One of his assistants handed him a bag. He started to load gold coins into the bags. Everyone watching was mentally counting.

* * *

_In the year of our Lord, 28 April, 1896, Midsomer Estate_

_My dear Elizabeth,_

_It's been a fortnight since Charlie left without so much as a word to the help, much less family. Daddy is beside himself, he can't decide whether to worry or be furious, and the whole household is in a dither. Mummy has taken to her rooms and hasn't been seen by anyone but her maid. The staff is all chock-a-block as daddy has taken to ordering servants to go forth hither-and-yon in the countryside whenever he thinks of yet another obscure accommodation where Charlie might have sequestered himself as well as having checked the Oxford residence three times a day by telegram._

_But here's the muddle, no one knows why! Why, oh why did Charlie go away?_

_The only hope is that he will suddenly reappear to explain himself. Of course, daddy would be likely to extract some resolute punishment from him, but that would be better than this uncertainty that pervades the old house now. Between you and me, I'm on pins and needles, nay, more than that, distraught with apprehension, more like. It's not like Charlie to not to take me into his confidence when launching one of his hare-brained schemes. I was sure that was the explanation, but now, well, my sisterly instinct is insisting on a harsher answer. I dare not listen to my fevered boding._

_And poor tormented Clara: confused, heartbroken and much overwrought. She was barely able to totter from her bed to the parlour when I popped by. Her butler, Biggs, told me she's hardly eating enough to keep a bird alive. Perhaps the less said, the better._

_In the meantime, All we can do is wait,_

_Your Cousin,_

_** Philippa **_

* * *

"Here you go, sir, Derek Ware, Earl of Orford's estate manager until 1955. Never married, served in the Royal Navy during WWII, rated as Petty Officer with a specialty in mine warfare – huh, I'm sure _that's_ useful in estate management."

Barnaby laughed. "Yeah, well, experienced Navy petty officers are people who get things done, so he might have been a good fit, although the mine warfare stuff? Probably forgotten."

"Let's see," Jones continued, "he had a sister, but she died sometime in the late forties, parent's both passed before the war, and that's all I see."

"How did he get hired on at the estate?"

"I don't know… Oh wait, here's a note, apparently the old Earl was a Royal Navy Captain. I suppose they must have served together, or something."

"Or maybe the ex-Navy Captain just felt comfortable hiring an ex-Navy rating, whether or not they served together. Check with Bullard, why dont'cha, see if the tree-trunk body's been identified yet."

"Sir."

* * *

_16 April, 1902, Oxford House_

_My dear cousin Elizabeth,_

_It is with a heavy heart that I tell you our news. As I write this missive, Father is down at the Crown Court with his solicitor. They are completing the paperwork for Charles. Father has finally decided, his hands forced really, to have Charlie declared officially dead._

_Oh my poor brother Charlie, I still can't believe that he disappeared so completely these seven years ago of his own free will. And in fact, no one believes that any more; daddy is certain that some underhanded skulduggery befell him because otherwise his disappearance makes no sense. He loved being the Viscount, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he didn't wish any ill to befall daddy, but he surely looked forward to eventually inheriting the estate, he loved Oxford, he loved Midsomershire, he loved the ancestral homes, he loved Clara above all, and so no, no one believes he walked out of this life willingly._

_So now the estate goes to my cousin Eddie. Well, I'm sure you know how I feel about that! Eddie isn't fit to clean the mud off Charlie's field boots, much less walk in his footsteps, isn't fit to manage a backyard vegetable plot, much less an estate of this considerable size. Father is keeping his anger and his feelings bottled up, and apparently I am the only one who sees this. I fear he may keel over from the stress and tension if he can't figure out something different. My poor father is but a shell of what he once was: Charlie's loss, followed so soon by mummy succumbing to the vapours, and then his hand-picked man losing the by-election to that puffed up peasant from Lesser Horsepath! But his hands are tied by our ridiculously outdated inheritance laws and so he must publicly recognize young Eddie as his heir, without the faintest suggestion that he's an ignorant fathead. Daddy may not even have realized that Eddie, besides being a foolish oaf, is also an odious creature who doesn't possess an ounce of principle or decency. I'm stopping now, my own feelings are too raw to go on._

_I feel very lucky indeed that I no longer have to live at this formerly great house – Father's gift to me and my new husband of the house in Oxford was like a benefaction from the heavens. Perhaps Father isn't nearly as oblivious to the world around him as he sometimes seems. Of course, if it wasn't for my husband, I don't know what I would have done – probably would've followed Clara to the convent._

_Your Sorrowful Cousin,_

_**Phillipa **_

* * *

I sadly gathered all of Kitty's notes, books, clothes, and other miscellaneous items that had collected in my house. I was planning to hand it all over to the police, but I couldn't help but start going through Kitty's notes, after all, she had been my research partner and who knows what she had come with and just never had the chance to bring to my attention?

I snorted,'Yeah, that's as good an excuse as any.'

In my study Kitty had left a leather messenger bag and a couple of boxes. Naturally I looked inside. I couldn't help myself, I had been an inveterate snoop since kindergarten. Oh wow, I had to stop and sit down for a few minutes thank about that. So no, of course I hadn't been a snoop in kindergarten because back then, I was just a floating ball of green energy. "Well fudge!" I said out loud to the empty room. _I guess the monk's _made_ me a snoop for their own inscrutable reasons. _ I leaned over and started to inventory Kitty's boxes. _Hmmm_, _what's this?_ I found a very old wooden box. It was entirely covered in intricate inlaid woods of many contrasting colors, along with ivory, and, what, brass? No, it had to be gold because it wasn't corroded or discolored. This was quite a find. I stared at the boxed, wondering if I should open it, but in the end, of course, I had to.

_Hmm, old letters. I wonder if I should read them? __Why do I even ask myself such a stupid question?_

After I read all the letters, I called Sergeant Hathaway.

* * *

I found Sergeant Hathaway in Furio's pub. He was sitting at in the corner reading so I got a half-pint of lager and sat across from him.

"Hey, Sergeant, may I join you?"

He smiled at me. "Sure, I can't very well say 'no' now, can I?"

"So watcha readin'?"

"_Our Magnificent Bastard Tongue,_ by John McWhorter."

"Oooh, linguistics. My favorite subject, McWhorter is good, really good."

"Yeah, I thought I'd catch up a little – it may even bear on this case."

"Really? Do you have any leads?"

"Now now, you know I can't talk about it, it is an ongoing investigation."

"And I'm a 'person of interest', I know."

"Not really, we don't actually suspect you."

"I'm glad to hear that."

"So," Hathaway continued after a swallow of dark beer, "I've been told that there are two kinds of Oxford students: _chancers_ and _scholars_. Which are you?"

"I don't know, what's the diff?"

"Chancers are ambitious. For them Oxford is merely a stepping stone to a greater life, hopefully ending up as an MP, maybe even prime minister, or maybe CEO of an international corp, or possibly an Anglican bishop. Your scholar, on the other hand, dreams of spending their life in a garret, writing books so obscure that they can be fully understood by only a few dozen people the world over, and be perfectly content, even deliriously happy doing so."

I laughed. "I would prefer to have a few tens of thousands understand my academic books, and I have high hopes for a popular bestseller someday – along the lines of McWhorter – but in general, yeah, the academic life is the one for me. I've had enough excitement to last a lifetime, three lifetimes maybe."

"Why? What happened to you?"

"Have you ever heard of Sunnydale, California?"

"Sunnydale… Oh yes, that's the town that sank into the earth."

"That's where I'm from. I was one of the last people out."

"Oh! That's why you look familiar! I saw your picture, by a school bus, overlooking the crater."

"Yep, that's the one."

"So, what did you want to talk to me about?"

"Well, I heard on the news about the corpse in the tree. Hey, that'd make a good mystery book title wouldn't it?" I reached into my messenger's satchel and brought out a sheaf of paper. "These are a bunch of old letters that might shed light on your mystery, or at least give you something to check."

I handed them over and he started to read. After a minute he looked up and asked, "Where'd you find these?"

"In my house. I think it's the same house that is described in the last letter. It was owned by the Walpole family back in the last century or so. Anyway, I found these in the guestroom that Kitty occasionally used, and I'm pretty sure that she found them in the house, probably up in the attic with a bunch of old stuff."

"Well, thank you for bringing these, I'm afraid I have to go and consult with my boss now."

"See ya later." I liked his smile as he left.


End file.
